


His Master's Voice

by De_Nugis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-22
Updated: 2010-08-22
Packaged: 2017-10-17 01:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/171630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Sam can still hear him</p>
            </blockquote>





	His Master's Voice

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: suicidal ideation and behavior.

A lot of the time it’s quiet, and there aren’t any words, really, it’s like a television in the next room, low volume, good neighbors, but it nags at him, quibbles at the edges of his concentration, his temper. He’ll be at the diner, trying to be there, to be back, to answer Dean, and it will be this counter rhythm in the back of his mind, an irritation, and he’ll gesture _shut up_ or even mutter it, and then he’ll catch Dean looking at him, always that wariness, Dean fears _for_ him, Dean doesn’t fear him, but the distinction isn’t always as important as Dean thinks it is. Dean doesn’t know. Dean doesn’t know Sam’s tuned to Lucifer, that he’s like those people who pick up the radio in their fillings, and god, if only, because they have pliers in the car and if it were his stupid tooth he could just yank it out, one sharp tug, throw it in the sink with the bloody roots dangling, all his teeth, molars, premolars, canines, Jesus, he wouldn’t care, his wisdom teeth, he’ll spit out wisdom, they’re just teeth, and sleep in the silence.

But it’s not his teeth, it’s his blood, every singing red cell in his veins since he was six months old, buzzing with voices, or only the one voice as it turned out, and he could have drained it, maybe, back then, dialed it down all the way to silence, should have, but instead he’d drunk more. He can’t open his veins and be rid of it now, can’t vomit it up, it’s too late, it’s built into muscle and tendons and nerves, it’s in the spongy hollows of his lungs, the cartilage of his larynx, his palette and tongue, he can hear it in his own voice, the ugly pulse in his words.

And the cage, not cage, amphitheater, he’d read once, the Greeks, that shape they made their theatres, it worked, the acoustics were fucking fantastic, because it was an ear, because it was shaped like an ear, some mystic scientific shit, and they think he escaped, Dean thinks so, or someone pulled him out, someone rescued him, but it’s not, it’s just turned inside out. He still hears Lucifer, he’s still trapped, he’s always been a monster, Dean should see that, the monster in the labyrinth, the voice caged in the whorls of the ear, and, you know, ears are as distinctive as fingerprints, no two are the same, his were shaped for Lucifer’s voice.

Sometimes it’s louder, and Sam walks in circles, smaller and smaller, draining towards the center, the tympanum. Dean will find him then, and Sam will hear him, because there is one other voice he can catch, but Dean doesn’t have the confidence, he’s no orator, just a broken _aw, Sammy_. Then there are little white pills, bitter, Dean patting his shoulder through the muffling comforter, _get some rest_ , and he’ll drift off, Dean’s voice, a more urgent rhythm, lively with fear, calling Bobby. It doesn’t help, not really, the dreams, except Sam can see him, then, too, and somehow it’s not quite so distracting then, hearing his voice.

And so one day he’s holding a gun.

He can see it, words spattered on the wall, clotted phrases, the broken mirror, blood. Pull the trigger, press MUTE and have done with it, one loud report. Fucking melodramatic, teenage Hamlet, god, Dean doesn’t deserve that, some suburban Horatio, Dean’s a good man, he shouldn’t have to explain Sam’s body to the audience. Sam should never have found him again, dragged him back. He puts the gun to the back of his head, experimenting, right behind where the voice is, and it fades, but not like it’s stopping, it’s like the few coughs in the dark, curtain about to rise, tuning up. He’s the only one who can stop it.

But the sound is the door slamming open, something dropping, discordant jangle, keys. He’s on the floor, the carpet’s sticky and it kind of stinks, Dean’s on top of him, holding him down, all crazy rhythms, heartbeat, breath. The gun’s somewhere, out of reach. Dean’s mad, of course he’s mad, _Jesus, Sam, Sam, what the fuck were you doing, Sam_ , he’s so fucking pissed. Maybe he’ll punch Sam, when he thinks he’s all right, when they stand up, when he lets go. That might even shut the voice up for a bit. There’d been a time, hunting, after he got back, some spirit slammed him into a wall, his head, and his first thought had been, _huh, wall, that’s usually Dean_ , he misses Dean, he’d barely gathered his wits to reach out the spark in his mind to burn the bones. He’d been out for a bit, concussed a few days, ringing in his ears, nothing else, it was gone. Months past his resurrection, and finally a miracle. Two weeks, and he’d called Dean. He’d been so sure it was gone, he really had.

Dean’s saying _shh, it’s okay, it’s okay_ into his ear, over and over. A lie. A lie in Dean’s voice, threaded through the labyrinth. 


End file.
